


Bare Necessities

by Robin_Mask



Category: Jungle Book (1967)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Family Drama, Fluff, Immigration & Emigration, M/M, Parenthood, Past Violence, Personification, Post-Break Up, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Robin_Mask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was much conflict between Bagheera and Baloo . . . </p><p>The break-up was difficult, not to mention that they still needed to find a way to raise Mowgli together, and yet something drew them together. They simply couldn't find a way to make their break-up permanent. Even if it would be for the best.</p><p>(characters are personified)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VickyVoltaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VickyVoltaire/gifts).



# Bare Necessities

 

“Oh, for the last time -!”

 

Bagheera spun around to face Baloo. The other man sat lazily next to the kitchen island, as he swung just slightly on the barstool. It was an all too familiar sight; even after they had officially broken up, it seemed that his ex-partner spent nearly every morning eating breakfast in his home. There was just something so comforting about the time spent together, basking in each other’s company, and he had not quite the heart to demand his space and ask Baloo to leave. Old habits were hard to break.

 

The younger man still looked the same as he ever did, which was a little disheartening when he always seemed to aspire to look like a shiftless bum. It was often a point of contention between them, as Bagheera believed deeply that one was judged by the company that one keeps, and yet . . . opposites attracted. Baloo was quite attractive in his own way, which his ex-partner referred to as a ‘casual-chic’, although he had put on a little weight since they had met in their twenties. It wasn’t that he was ‘overweight’, but there was a bulge to his stomach that came from too much drink and not enough walking. Still, he looked relatively well and quite healthy.

 

“If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times -!”

 

“Yeah, yeah!” Baloo said. “I get it! The kid’s at school! Don’t know why you send poor Mowgli there anyway. It’s _way_ too strict . . . reminds me of the military schools back home. Anyway, Hathi can’t teach the kid nothing I don’t already know!”

 

“Yes, well, unfortunately boorish American accents and aimless procrastination only requires a lesson or so, I’m told the rest of the year composes of mathematics, science and other core subjects. If you believe yourself capable of teaching those, be my guest! I will _gladly_ allow you to home-school him. It will prove that the teaching establishment is far superior to that of an American drop-out.”

 

“Oh, right, _‘far superior to that of an American’_ -! Ah, who asked you? I tell you what; you weren’t complaining about my accent just last week! I guess education in a college don’t quite equal skills elsewhere, if you get my drift.”

 

“I – you –! You _blithering, childish, crude_ -!”

 

“Not so sophisticated now, eh, Baggy!”

 

Bagheera drew in a deep breath. It was hard to remain calm, but he knew full well that he could not exactly walk away at such a crucial moment. The truth was that Baloo had just as much right to be in their son’s life as he did, which meant that going through reports cards and arranging transport to parents’ evening was a must, but – even after several months of no longer being an item – it was just as hard to remain civil as it had ever been. He clawed at the edge of the island angrily.

 

It was hard to ignore the bear-like yawn from his ex-partner, especially when he could catch flies with such a gesture. He was in desperate need of both a shave and a haircut, so that his chin was covered in gruff stubble and his brown hair was a ruffled mess, and it reminded Bagheera of their more romantic years, when he would shave Baloo in the morning and how they would bathe together in the evening. He gave a long exhale and looked into those brown eyes. There was still so much love between them, but lately the only time they could come together without animosity was where Mowgli was concerned. A child was no reason to stay together, surely?

 

He shook his head and turned around to grab the tray of drinks from the kitchen counter, but he had to pause mid-step due to the shot of pain through his leg that stole his breath for a brief moment. This would be infinitely easier with his cane, which was lying against the island within reach, but – save from attempting to carry the tray in his mouth like an animal – it would prove useless when he would need both hands free to move the collection of items. He bit his lip and swallowed hard. No, he would do this and he would not require the help of anyone or anything else.

 

“Need a hand there?” Baloo asked.

 

“I believe I can manage just fine, thank you.”

 

It took a great amount of self-control to keep the pain from his face, but he managed to carry the tray with minimal damage and minimal shaking, and – most importantly of all – he hadn’t needed Baloo to support him in his short walk. There were times when he appreciated the other man helping him to walk upright without his cane, but lately every touch they shared felt like torture. They appeared to exist in a state of limbo: broken up and yet together. It was no way to live.

 

“You need to be responsible, Baloo.”

 

“Yeah, well, the kid’s just as much my responsibility as he is yours,” snapped Baloo, as he reached for a cup of tea. “I know that you don’t want to get married to someone like me, but I still don’t get why you won’t properly _adopt_ Mowgli. He’s a good kid!”

 

“Yes, but he isn’t _our_ ‘kid’. You can’t keep dropping hints about marriage and expect me _not_ to feel somewhat frustrated, just as you can’t keep mentioning raising Mowgli as your own when he is _not_ your own, and – honestly – I can’t keep having these battles day after day! Rama sent Mowgli to us to get an _education_. Our village is a good home for him, but you forget that he has a family back in India.”

 

“Did you even ask Rama? He hasn’t seen Mowgli in years.”

 

“Tickets to England are highly expensive.”

 

Bagheera gave a sigh and sat down in a chair by the island. He winced a little and felt his black eyes close tightly, whilst he counted to ten in his head to try and distract himself from the pain. It was difficult to breathe and he could feel a small sweat break out over his high brow, but he ignored it and tried to fight past the worst of the pain, as he instead brushed back a long lock of black hair that had fallen out of place. He accidentally brushed past a few whiskers and chastised himself for a bad job shaving.

 

“We could have gone to see him!”

 

“We could have done a lot of things,” said Bagheera. “Rama is too proud to accept any charity, as such he must make do with letters and occasional phone-calls. We could have gone, that much is true, but he has made it clear that he would feel indebted to us for our kindness, as well as the fact that he cannot _afford_ to entertain guests for as many days as we would need. It cannot be helped.”

 

“If he can’t afford to even Skype the kid, he’ll be open to adoption.”

 

“So his poverty denies him any right to his child?”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

 

Baloo downed his tea and slammed the cup down. There were times when the younger man just didn’t think, but when it came to Mowgli it was certainly one area where commonsense went out of the window. The truth was that they had raised the boy since he turned ten, so that these five years had flown by in a fleeting moment, and – in all honesty – five years without any contact with his family was a long time. Rama _would_ be open to adoption, but there were other factors involved . . .

 

“Adoption is a large commitment,” said Bagheera.

 

They sat in silence for a long moment, whilst Bagheera looked lazily outside through the French doors into the garden. It was somewhat overgrown and looked rather like a jungle, so much so that Mowgli rather enjoyed spending his days climbing trees and splashing in the pond, and Bagheera had smiled the first time their son had seen the greenery of the garden and the colourful flowers of the woods nearby. Mowgli had asked where the tigers and wolves were, whether there were bears or snakes, and it had taken them a long time to convince him that England had no dangerous animals at all. Mowgli had wandered the woods with them every day since.

 

Baloo gave a low moan of frustration. He waved his hands about as if he were trying to gesticulate some greater meaning, whereas Bagheera simply sat poised and proper as he nursed his drink between his hands. They would have to sit their son down properly at some point and make it clear that they were no longer an item, but – whilst Baloo continued to spend more nights with them than he did alone – it felt somewhat premature. Still, he wondered whether they could resolve their issues.

 

“You think I can’t commit?”

 

“No, I think that you came home last week with a black eye,” said Bagheera. “It may _seem_ like fun to spend your nights drinking at _King Louie’s Bar_ , but when word gets out about your drag act . . . well, it _hardly_ is a ringing endorsement for parenthood.”

 

“Hey, a guy’s got to let off steam now and again! You got to get with the beat!” Baloo smiled devilishly and gave a wink. “Listen up, Baggy, I told you that I was ready to commit! You want a family guy then I’ll _be_ a family guy, but you know what? I remember how that conversation went: ‘you wouldn’t want to marry a man, would you?’ and I replied ‘no man ever asked me’. Well, you asking me?”

 

“I – well – look, you -!” Bagheera blushed and looked away. “Look, it isn’t _just_ about marriage. You dropped out of Oxford, which – I may add – was a complete waste of potential, then you dropped out of flight school, when you could have made an _excellent_ pilot! You’re a forty-year-old man! What do you have to show?”

 

“A sexy boyfriend and a smart kid?”

 

“Huh, _truly_ exceptional.”

 

Bagheera turned to look at Baloo. A long lock of hair fell about his vision again, which was quite distracting for both him and for his ex-partner, and he could feel Baloo’s eyes locked upon his hair where it brushed against his cheek. The other man gave a sort of lecherous smile, which made his rather strong and plump features seem all the younger than they actually were, and – for a brief moment – Bagheera felt a brief pang of jealousy. He was well aware of how sharp and sunken his own features appeared, as well as the lines of age due to finally having reached his mid-forties, and he honestly wondered what Baloo saw in him. He no longer felt handsome.

It was when he saw Baloo waggle his eyebrows that he gave a long sigh, before he reached over for the pocket of his waistcoat. There was a long clip placed there, which was kept for occasions when he quickly needed to pin his hair away from his face, and he used it to tie back his hair and free his black eyes. There was an obvious pout to Baloo’s lips, which only served to make Bagheera smirk and primp a little with a victorious little shuffle of his body. Clearly, he still held _some_ appeal.

 

“Did you find any work?”

 

“Nah, nothing going,” said Baloo. “Kaa wants a receptionist for his hypnotherapy office thingy, but I ain’t got the qualifications for that. Khan laughed in my face when I asked for a job in his accountancy firm, something like if I couldn’t count how many damns he gave then I couldn’t count up any tax forms, and _The Vultures_ said they needed a proper musician for their band. I might just temp at the bar with Louie. It’s minimum wage, but staff get a discount on drinks. Got to do something, right?”

 

“Well, it’s a start, I’ll give you that,” Bagheera replied. “If I thought you would stick with it, I would offer to pay for night classes at the local college. What about if I offered you a place as my personal assistant? I could do with someone to take phone calls and to find the books that I need for my work.”

 

“What good’s that? We wouldn’t be earning any extra cash. The money you give me would just go back into the house and Mowgli. Nah, it’s all good! Plus, bad move mixing business with pleasure! I’ll start at the bar next week.”

 

“I suppose it’s something, that much is true.”

 

Bagheera rubbed at his temple and looked across to Baloo, who – true to form – appeared quite nonchalant about the whole affair. It was as if he saw no problem with the fact that he had spent the twenty years effectively lounging in Bagheera’s house, living from Bagheera’s wages, and eating Bagheera’s food whenever he grew tired of the taste of takeout. Frankly, he had no idea why he had enabled it for so long, but he had _tried_ turning his back on his ex-partner and he _always_ found himself drawn back.

 

It had only been made worse in the past few years since they had taken care of Mowgli, as any attempt at forcing Baloo to take on responsibility only added to his worries and fears, to the extent that – no sooner would he leave Baloo to deal with a problem – he felt himself running back to solve it himself. It may well have been that he was too much of a perfectionist and a control-freak, but surely _someone_ had to be the adult and take control? Baloo seemed to lack any motivation or purpose in life, so that he may have _still_ lived at home had he never met Bagheera, and he seemed to think that childhood was a perpetual state, and it wasn’t! It really wasn’t!

 

How had he fallen in love with a man that he _pitied_? Baloo sat hunched over at his spot on the kitchen-island, where he began to try and scratch his back and yawned once more, and then cast his eyes lazily to their son’s report cards. He appeared to be acing some lessons and failing others miserably, but so far they had yet to specifically address the issue once. Their relationship problems had _again_ stolen focus. Baloo smiled sadly and shook his head with a sense of humour absent in Bagheera, and it was then that he heard the front door open. Mowgli was home.

 

“Are you . . . staying the night?”

 

“I don’t know,” Baloo answered. “Am I?”

 

It was then that Mowgli and Junior, Hathi’s eldest son, ran into the kitchen with a speed that was almost enviable. The slightly younger of the two, which happened to be Junior, gave them both a perfect salute and clicked his heels together, before he nodded to Mowgli and then took the chance to run outside into the back garden. Their son apparently hadn’t even noticed their presence at all, but instead went straight to the fridge and began to hoard all the junk food to take out with him.

 

It couldn’t be that time already, could it? Bagheera looked up at the kitchen clock above the hallway door and saw that – indeed – it was something close to four, which meant that his son and his friend were either held back or had been buying junk food from the newsagents on the way home. He frowned at the thought. They finished school at three-thirty and it was now close to four, and considering it was only a ten-minute walk to their home . . . where had Mowgli been? He had muddy patches all over his uniform, so perhaps he had played a game of football, but he should have at least _rang_ home for permission first. It simply wouldn’t do! It was reprehensible.

 

“Hey, kid!” Baloo shouted. “No hello for your old pal?”

 

“Baloo! You’re here!”

 

“Where else would I be? Home sweet home, kid!”

 

Mowgli ran straight to Baloo and gave him a warm hug. The smile on their son’s lips was endearing indeed, almost enough that it made him forget the fact his son was close to twenty-minutes late home. Mowgli pulled back and jumped a little on the balls of his feet, before he glanced back and forth to the doors and to his younger father, and it was clear that he was caught between joining his friend outside and talking a little longer with his father. Bagheera shook his head with a smile.

 

“Are you staying, Baloo?”

 

“He will be staying for the night,” said Bagheera. “He will, of course, be staying in the guestroom, but he will be here for the rest of the day, I guarantee it. Now, go and see to Junior. I have a lot of work today, as Khan has asked me to proofread some of his bilingual brochures, so Junior _can’t_ stay any later than five. Dinner will be ready at six. Don’t worry, Baloo will still be here when you’ve finished.”

 

“Okay! I’m so glad you’re back, Baloo!”

 

“Me too, kid,” said Baloo.

 

It was then that Mowgli ran outside. He took his snacks with him, almost as if he were still the child that he had been when they first met, and Bagheera watched him through the glass until he and Junior hid in their tree house. They lacked their schoolbags, which led him to believe that they were _not_ doing homework, and – as far as he was concerned – Mowgli would be going straight to his room after dinner, unless he managed to fit in some work before then. He needed a work ethic.

 

Baloo laughed and stood up, where he looked outside too. A few moments later Baloo came around and draped his arms around Bagheera’s shoulders, where he clasped them in front of Bagheera’s chest, and nuzzled against his neck. Bagheera felt the lazy kisses placed against his deep brown skin, which Baloo always termed ‘exotic’ and ‘beautiful’, and gave a low sigh of frustration. He disapproved of public displays of affection, and this was technically ‘public’ when it risked Mowgli coming back into the kitchen to see the kisses. Still, no one could be as affectionate as Baloo could, not even the few lovers he had before his ex-partner. He was skilled, indeed.

 

“Guestroom, huh? Want me to sneak into our room tonight?”

 

“Obviously,” Bagheera muttered.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to VickyVoltaire.
> 
> Congratulations on doing so well! :)
> 
> Thank you, too, for your help with the characters :)

**Chapter Two**

_‘So, are you going?’_

Bagheera watched from the kitchen. It was an a sight that made him feel a spark of sentimentality, as he saw the young boy blush and shrug from within the living-room, and it seemed that time had passed him by without any warning. This teenager was once the boy that had went bug-hunting with Baloo in their garden, just as he had once climbed into bed beside Bagheera after a nightmare, and now – that sweet and innocent child – was becoming a man. Bagheera felt nostalgic, as he hoped to hold onto that boy for little while longer.

The leather sofa was filled with papers and folders, with a strange line of pens inserted between the cushions to make a makeshift standing fence between the two halves of the couch, and on the floor in front of it sat Mowgli and Junior. They had filled the low table in front of them with snacks and drinks, which had been prepared by Baloo before he had left for an early shift at the bar, but they seemed to ignore such temptations for whatever conversation they were in the midst of having. Mowgli sat in his uniform, although he was barefooted and his dark hair was messy as always, whilst Junior wore an incredibly smart shirt with plain trousers, which lacked a single crease or stain. They seemed content.

It was – of course – quite rude to eavesdrop, but Bagheera felt somewhat compelled. He allowed himself to lean casually upon the doorframe and kept his arms folded across his chest, whilst he trained his black eyes upon his son and his nervous expression, and hoped that they would not notice him from the angle at which he stood. The kitchen behind him held a small chill from the open back door, which only served to remind him of the storm that was due to arrive that very evening. He quickly stole a glance to his watch and made a mental note to drive Junior home when he was done. It wouldn’t do to catch cold.

 _‘I don’t know,’_ said Mowgli.

 _‘I’m going! Pops says that India is rich with culture and history,’_ Junior replied. _‘I’m not supposed to answer back, especially because Pops is my hero, but I don’t want to go to see the history very much. I like their music and their food, though.’_

 _‘I don’t! I don’t_ need _to go to India for food! Baloo keeps taking me to the restaurants in town, whilst Bagheera is always making dishes that smell worse going in than when they come out, it’d be awful to have to eat all those meals again! It was horrible there. I’d starve! You know it’s really not very nice? Momma used to do the washing by hand outside, whilst there were these scary dogs that used to chase me on my bike.’_

 _‘Yeah, but your parents were poor, weren’t they? I hear Shanti’s parents have_ servants _! I saw these photos of a really big house and big fields; she even has cows, too! I think she said that her caste are of farmers, but she said she’s the highest caste too, but if you were a high caste then you wouldn’t be a farmer, would you? Pops says we’ll have to stay in a hotel.’_

_‘I don’t know. I don’t care! I don’t want to go and I won’t!’_

_‘You could come with us, instead?’_

The expression on Mowgli’s face was familiar. It was the petulant pout that he wore when he was being pressured into an action that felt unnatural to him, so that – with enough prodding – he would either throw a tantrum or run away. Bagheera hated to see his son this way, but he knew that it was necessary not to coddle him or give into his demands, because it would only validate the bad behaviour with positive reinforcements, and so he simply watched as Mowgli played with an empty wrapper in his lap. It provided a little distraction.

It was hard to be too angry with Mowgli, despite the insult to his cooking skills, as he knew exactly how deep his son’s fears ran. The summer holidays would provide six weeks of unadulterated fun for most children, which was a sense of excitement to most; Shanti would return home to her family for a long overdue visit, whilst Junior would see for the first time the country in which his father had served for so many years, and Mowgli – if he wished – had the opportunity to go with either. He watched as his son began to play with a stray pen on the floor with his foot, in a manner that was both childish and distracting.

_‘I don’t want to go. It’s inconvenient.’_

_‘Yeah, I think Shanti is flying direct from London,’_ said Junior. _‘Pops said it’s too difficult to get to, so we’ll have to fly indirect from Birmingham. He made me memorise the airport name:_ Sri Guru Ram Das Jee, _I think?_ _Shanti said it takes four hours from the airport by road to where she lives, but Pops said it should take us far less time, as we’ll be going to tourist areas, rather than places out of the way. I hate flying, so two flights will be scary.’_

_‘It’s not that! It’s just – if I go with you or Shanti, I’ll have to go back and see my family, too, but I don’t want to! Baloo and Bagheera are still going through the adoption thing, but until then I’m not a British citizen . . . what if my papa changes his mind? I want to stay here in the village! I don’t want back to some jungle place!’_

_‘I thought Baloo and Bagheera were going with you? I’m sure they’d –’_

_‘Who’s that?’_

There was a knock at the front door. It was enough to make Bagheera slink back fully into the kitchen, where he carefully pushed the kitchen door half-closed and stood behind it, so that he could use the crack to see out into the lounge without being seen in return. It could not be anyone that Bagheera would wish to see, as his – _unfortunate_ – fiancé would simply use his key to enter their home, whereas those like Hathi would ring in advance as per the usual etiquette, and Bagheera’s only living relatives were abroad. That meant it could only be one person, which was the one person that Bagheera least wanted to see.

Mowgli let out a low groan and stood up, before he brushed off his clothing and cricked his back in a way _far_ too reminiscent of Baloo, but he headed over to the door slowly and without any haste. There were three more rapt knocks at the door. It was impossible to ignore the way Mowgli scrunched up his face, or the way he stuck his tongue out at the door, but luckily the person on the other side was oblivious to this behaviour and Junior only laughed.

It could only end one way . . .

The boy opened the door to reveal a man approaching close to fifty. It allowed a draught to blow through the lounge through to the kitchen, which caused the door to sway slightly in the breeze, and – for a brief moment – Bagheera was almost certain that he had been spotted by the fast eye and quicker reflex of one Shere Khan. He watched in silence without any intent to see to his guest. It was still possible that he was unseen to the older man’s eye, in which case it would be foolish to reveal his presence so prematurely.

It was almost intimidating to see how immaculate Khan looked, even for casual appearances at the door of what could perhaps be termed ‘an old acquaintance’, and the suit that he wore was clearly one of the finest designers imaginable. Bagheera had to admit that he was still a highly attractive individual, although he would have to be insane to let a man like that get his claws into him. He had not once since Baloo ever entertained another man physically or emotionally, even during their _many_ breaks, and – to his knowledge – his partner had not done so either, but it was still hard not to feel something spark inside him at the sight of Khan. He had to remind himself that it was not a sin to let his mind wander.

 _‘Tell me,’_ said Khan, _‘is your father home?’_

_‘No, he’s not.’_

_‘How strange. You mean to say that you are home alone? There are a lot of dangers that can befall a child such as yourself, especially when there aren’t any adults to protect you from your insolence and recklessness. Now, be honest, I shan’t ask twice: where is your father?’_

_‘I’m telling you the truth, Khan. My father is at work. He’s at the bar.’_

_‘Your_ other _father, then, boy.’_

Khan stood with perfect poise. The smile that he wore was deceptively patient, but the small flicker of white teeth made him seem almost primal and dangerous, like a hunter that smiled upon sight of its prey. He picked at an invisible speck of dust upon one black sleeve, before he reached up to adjust his silk tie and beam down at Mowgli, even as his eyes narrowed to almost unreal depths. There was a slight yellowish tinge to his dark eyes, and Bagheera – even from his distance – wondered whether the older man were quite well.

 _‘He’s in the kitchen,’_ snapped Mowgli.

_‘Very well, then I advise you to run along and fetch him for me. I’ll wait.’_

_‘You’ll be waiting a long time, Khan. I’m not scared of you and I don’t run for anyone.’_

_‘Ah, you have spirit for one so young! That spirit is deserving of a second chance,’_ said Khan with surprising patience. _‘Now, I’m going to take a deep breath and count to ten, and if you haven’t fetched your father in that time . . . well . . . I’m sure he’ll have stern words for you.’_

“Mowgli, it’s fine, go back to your homework.”

Bagheera stepped from behind the door.

He kept his eyes locked upon the older man, who stared back as if waiting for Bagheera to back down and avert his gaze, but –whilst Bagheera would admit to being intimidated by several people – Khan would never intimidate him to the extent of backing down. There had been many hardships that he had suffered in his homeland, so that he often felt as if he were raised like an animal in captivity, and he had thus seen and endured enough to never allow another man that level of power over him. He would not let Khan dictate his actions.

The only concern that he held was for Mowgli. It was one thing to risk confrontation with Khan himself, but another thing entirely for him to risk his son being caught in the crossfire, especially when he knew that Khan _loathed_ children to rather extreme lengths. He almost admired how Khan kept his hands before him, with one locked around the wrist of the other, as it showed admirable strength and self-control, and that was something that once had been lacking during their youth. Bagheera was not the only one with a lameness to him. He sometimes wondered whether Khan’s slight limp was the cause of his distaste towards children, which would run around him in a way the older man struggled to match.

“Want me to call Baloo?” Mowgli asked.

“No, no,” replied Bagheera. “I imagine that we shan’t have any trouble at all. We have much to discuss, but – should time run over – feel free to interrupt us. I don’t want Junior to walk home alone, again! It’s dark early and far too cold. Do you hear me, Mowgli?”

“Yeah, I hear you, but still -! Bagheera, I –”

“Don’t worry, now get to work.”

Bagheera held open the kitchen door and signalled for Khan to follow. The older man walked with perfect posture and that same infuriating smile, but the slight limp to his walk gave away a weakness that he was loath to admit, and – against his wishes – Bagheera found himself remembering those fleeting images of their youth. He felt a twinge in his own leg, as he held his cane tightly in his free hand, and both cursed the accident that had injured both men and also left Bagheera with much more substantial damage. He resented being left somewhat physically disabled, whilst his ex-partner survived with barely a limp and a fear of fire that verged on something deeper . . . Bagheera suspected post-traumatic stress.

They entered the kitchen and Khan closed the door firmly behind them, before he made his way over to the island. He waited for permission to sit. Bagheera nodded as he walked past, whilst he admired the red hair of the older man that held a hint of grey around the ears and fringe, and he couldn’t help but to chastise himself for being attracted to a man that was ostentatious in his appearance simply for a need to flaunt himself. The hair was as natural as the whiskers on his chin, but the black-and-red striped shirt clashed in such a way that it almost seemed intentional. It was eye-catching indeed.

“Do you mind if I prepare Mowgli’s lunch as we talk?”

“Of course not,” said Khan. “I recently heard that you proposed to that oaf Baloo?”

“You heard right.” Bagheera grabbed a knife from a drawer. “I probably ought to have proposed much sooner, but I was raised to believe that birds of a feather flock together . . . I was a first-generation living in Britain, whereas he was a third-generation American.”

“Ah, yes, that was right. It was rather clear that you _were_ the traditionalist, although one can’t help but think tradition means less to you than you so claim . . . after all, you wouldn’t have dated a _man_ at all, would you, were you that determined to comply by outdated cultural expectations? Nevertheless, I do suspect you have committed yourself to a foolish step down. A little birdie tells me that your fiancé works as – what was it? Ah, yes – a _bartender_.”

“Baloo enjoys his work and contributes to household expenses. What more can I ask?”

“That he not consort with degenerate monkeys?”

Bagheera drew in a deep breath, before he forcefully reached for the bread bin and pulled out a loaf of bread far too forcefully than he intended, which – most likely – betrayed his anger for the other man to see. In the fifty years since his birth, Khan had learned a cruel knack for knowing which buttons to press on a person to get the reaction he intended. Bagheera did not wish to let him win, but he could not help other than to slam his knife point down into the bread, so that it was left standing on its own accord. The point was driven deep.

“You play the part of a colonial fascist well,” said Bagheera.

“Oh, temper, temper!” Khan chastised with a smile. “You always _were_ quick to criticise when it came to the insults of such a primitive people. Nevertheless, I did not come here to argue over our different perceptions of various races. I have a job for you.”

“Ah, but isn’t that the prerogative of a freelance worker? I do not have to abide your insults, but nor do I have to feel obliged to accept your offer of work. I somewhat get the feeling that you see me as the naïve youth that you once courted, but times change and we all must get older as the years move on. Do you honestly think that I would work for you without a good incentive? The last time I accepted such an offer nearly led to charges of sexual harassment.”

“You were offered an apology, were you not? I am afraid that we _all_ have that instinctual urge within us,” said Khan softly. “I saw an opportunity, I pounced upon it. I must say that you really do prove to be the stronger than your slim frame implies, but I suppose that forgetfulness does come with age, although it feels almost sinful to forget _that_.”

“I must say that you were very lucky that I chose not to tell Baloo about such an act.”

“Hmm? Do you mean to say I should be afraid of a man like that?”

“He is quite capable of acting when given the right incentive.”

Bagheera drew in a deep breath. He began to saw at the bread with dangerously broad movements, as he directed his anger at Khan through the loaf before him. The last time they had been intimate had been just before the accident, which was a good twenty-five years ago, and Bagheera did not miss those days in the least. Did he miss the passion and the spark of drama? There were times . . . it would be a lie to say that he did not look fondly on the moments where they would rip holes in the sheets, or the sound of the neighbours banging hard upon the ceiling, or the scent of sweat heavy in the air. It would be foolish not to miss the passions of youth or the mornings entangled in sheets together.

That being said, he could also remember the pain. He could remember being that same twenty-year old that fought incessantly with Khan, both men so polar opposites despite the superficial similarities between them. They were from different countries, different cultures, and different religions . . . one was working towards a promotion, one was working towards graduation . . . their fighting had led to one near-fatal distraction.

The smell of sweat had been replaced with smoke. The torn sheets were replaced with bloody fingernails. The bittersweet ache to their muscles was replaced with agonising pain. They were no longer entwined together in Bagheera’s student accommodation, but instead desperate to part and thinking only of their own survival. Bagheera remembered feeling trapped . . . he loathed that feeling . . . claustrophobic ever since his childhood, where he had rarely been allowed out of the family home. He clawed at the door until he was able to fall outside, with the glass embedded into his leg. The flames licked higher and higher. It was a blur what happened next, but he remembered well the striped scars across Khan’s body and the way that the older man sought to hide them, marked forever by the flames.

“You appear distracted,” said Khan.

“I am always reminded of the past when I look at you,” replied Bagheera. “I remember when I looked into your eyes when we both healed . . . you had the look of a predator about you. It was the first time that I saw who you really were and what you were capable of doing. Tell me, Khan, did they ever find that driver?”

“Let us not think on such morbid things. I know what you think of me, my dear friend, but there is very little I can do to reassure you of my trustworthiness. Let me say instead that I simply came here to ask for your help. I need a Bengali speaker.”

“Hmm? Is this a Bengali or a Bangladeshi client?”

“Does it matter?”

There was a moment of silence. Bagheera eventually gave a hiss of breath through his nose, before he walked to the refrigerator and began to pull out various ingredients. He felt the cold of the machine against his skin, which gave him a chance to ground himself and fend off his anger, for it could be amazing to him how a man so intelligent could be so short-sighted. It was a nice distraction to make the sandwiches and feel somewhat domestic, even as he thought on his career and how work for Khan paid very well . . . albeit at a price.

“To a man like you? No, it doesn’t matter.”

“My Hindi is rusty,” said Khan. “I believe the last time I used it was during those months together in your flat. You would lie next to me, with your hair splayed about the pillow and trailing down your back, and we would whisper in a tongue that was both our own and yet not our own. How magical, was it not? It seemed pretentious to you, to speak anything other than English before our friends, whilst we didn’t speak each other’s native tongues . . . ”

“A shared language . . . a secret language, really . . . I must say that I rarely use it outside of work myself, although _Baloo_ certainly loves the sound of it above all else. It amazes him to hear the word of ‘God’ spoken in so many tongues, but this is a childish game of tit-for-tat, so unless there is a reason why you need _my_ services in particular -?”

“I only know Gujarati and Hindi. He knows no English.”

“How did you communicate before this?”

Khan simply smiled. He sat back and lifted his hands, as if in mockery of a gesture of surrender, and just beneath the cuff of his jacket could be seen the beginning of a raised scar. It was difficult to remain calm, for clearly Khan thought that Bagheera would not question the fact that someone who spoke only Bengali would contact an English accountant, but he caught the devilish gleam in his ex-partner’s eye and saw something deeper. Khan’s smile was a half-smile, which caused lines to form and exaggerate the expression.

They shared a look that was both meaningful and meaningless, for no matter what they had experienced much together and there would always be a mutual respect, but the love they once felt was gone – if it had ever been there at all – and nothing was left but hostility. That hostility had once led to passion, but now it merely led to Bagheera clenching hard upon the handle of his knife, as he cut the sandwiches into quarters. The metal began to bite into his finger. He looked down to see that he had allowed his finger to slip, so that a drop of blood had fallen onto the carving-board, and he hissed out an angry breath.

He drew a cloth across to his hand to cover the wound, whilst he looked briefly away to the kitchen door, but – from the other side – he could hear that his son was still in the midst of a lengthy discussion with Junior. The two were fast friends. They confided in each other everything and spent almost their entire time with each other, which led Bagheera to feel slightly more comfortable about leaving his son to talk with Khan, as he knew that Junior would provide Mowgli with some distraction. It was then that Khan spoke.

“The job will pay very well.”

“I imagine it does,” said Bagheera, “but I also know that you have shown a great deal of interest in my personal life since my engagement. This is a game to you, Khan. You seek to steal me away from Baloo in order to prove yourself. Tell me; will there be business trips involved in this little interpretation venture? I somehow foresee the need to meet the client in person, visiting what could be one of two countries, according to your ‘avid’ interest.”

“It would be rude not to meet in person, Bagheera. You should know that it pays well to run one’s own firm, enough so that I would be able to rent the finest apartments and hotel rooms, and I do remember how you enjoy your luxuries. I can offer you the very best. You would want for nothing and all I ask for is a little company in return.”

“No, you ask for an extra-marital affair on my part and a kept-man on yours. _Get out_.”

“You would throw me out? Baloo has nothing to give you.”

“Aside from a family and home? True, indeed.”

Bagheera ignored the food for his cane. He gripped the metal top within his hand, used it to relieve the pressure from his injured leg. It left him feeling self-conscious, for he knew that it was difficult to appear intimidating when he was crippled in one limb, but he remained tall and walked around the island to stand beside Khan. He kept his eyes locked upon the other man and let himself give a dangerous smile, whilst he kept a careful ear out for his son.

“Leave, Khan.”

“If I choose to overstay my welcome?”

“Our oven is powered by gas,” snapped Bagheera. “You dislike naked flames, do you not?”

Khan paled considerably. It was a very low move on Bagheera’s part, as he knew just how deep the trauma ran and how the phobia was Khan’s greatest shame, but he felt that he was being far more subtle and patient than many other people would be in his situation. Khan stood slowly from his chair and gave a soft nod, whilst the smile to his lips became replaced by a cold scowl. He would leave quickly and with as much dignity as he could muster, but he would remember this slight and the animosity between them would only grow.

“My offer still stands, Bagheera.”

“Goodbye, Khan.”

 

 


End file.
